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  • I’m tired of pretending like I’m a waveless ocean. I’m afraid my having to hide these ebbs and flows is causing some internal structural damage, the extent of which is still unknown. I was a happy baby. And I’m not just saying this because it’s what my mom told me, I know it to be true. I remember. I was a happy baby, a happy baby that became a happy adult. And now happy is what I am. Happy is the paint color we chose for me, a bright-buttery yellow we dowsed me in from the get-go. And when this golden hue shines, well it really shines. I’m electric, I’m a riot, joke, joke, joke, quip, quip, quip. I’m that guy at the party that can’t seem to get a moment alone to smoke a cigarette, to fix my hair, to address my own needs and make myself laugh. I don’t think I know how to properly convey other emotions other than joy. Sadness and depression don’t hang right on me, anger is way too tight, and I prefer my resentment in my bed, in blanket-form: massive, stitched with pained memories, and a tad bit too warm. I can’t help but wonder if this toothy grin has an ulterior motive. Does each smile I crack crack something else deep inside of me? I’m a ’63 Chevy Corvette with a flooded engine, no brakes, and a rust problem that can’t seem to be taken care of, but this new fresh coat of yellow paint sure makes me shine. I’m a rotten banana that someone covered in my signature yellow disguising all the bruises and blemishes; a yummy-looking, healthy treat that will only upset you once you peel me open.
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